Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(90)

“It takes three pieces to make me throw up,” he argued, then waggled his eyebrows in my direction. “I put that to the test last year.”

“I remember,” Mr. Holiday said sourly.

“You’re a disgusting little animal,” Mrs. Holiday echoed.

He grinned and licked crumbs off his fork.

As Lon grumbled, Jupe plucked out a chunk of banana from his slice and fed it to Mr. Piggy under the dining room table while he recounted stories from past birthdays, enlightening me as to why both saltwater aquariums and slumber parties were forever banned at the Butler house. Good to know.

Though he’d already unwrapped several gifts, Jupe’s big birthday present came while we were clearing away the remains of the cake. I agreed to distract Jupe while Lon went outside and took care of the delivery.

“I’m sorry your real birthday stunk,” I said as we waited.

“You and me both. I always thought flying would be cool, but I was this close to pissing my pants,” he admitted with a weak smile.

“That’s a habit of yours, isn’t it?” I teased.

He snickered, then we both fell silent.

“Do you think Ms. Forsythe will ever teach again?” he asked after a time.

“I don’t know.”

She was currently healing in the hospital after reconstructive surgery on her knees. Unlike Lon’s neck wound, her shattered bone and cartilage couldn’t be mended by a healer, not even one as skilled as Mr. Mick. At Lon’s insistence, Dare was making arrangements for Ms. Forsythe to be checked into some place up the coast, the Golden Path Center, a “voluntary” mental health retreat for Earthbounds. I hoped she found a way to deal with her very involuntary role in all this, but I wasn’t sure if that was possible.

“Hey, Cady,” Jupe said in a low voice, “how long have you known about my dad?”

I hesitated. “The transmutating?”

He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Yeah.”

“A couple of months, I guess. But only because of all that stuff he was helping me with when we first met.”

“I can’t believe he lied to me,” he said softly.

“He didn’t want you to know because he doesn’t want you to undergo the spell that allows him to do that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re strong enough without it, and it’s caused him a lot of problems. If he had to do it all over again—if he had the choice—he wouldn’t undergo the spell. That kind of power can be a burden. You might not understand that now, but you will. Your knack isn’t going to be roses, either. With or without a spell to boost it.”

“Maybe,” he said after a few moments. “But I’d kinda like to have the horns.”

I slanted a glance his way. He was smiling. I elbowed him and he chuckled.

“All right,” Lon called from the foyer. “Get your ass out here, Motormouth.”

Jupe leapt off the sofa and raced outside.

The departing tow truck was circling the driveway when I got to the door. I trailed Lon and Jupe across the gravel to the garage—a really nice, three-car one, with a polished floor and custom cabinets lining the walls. They almost never used it because Lon parked his beat-up truck and SUV in the driveway. The sleek silver Audi we’d taken to the Hellfire caves last month sat covered on the far side—he only drove it a few times a year—and the rest of the garage was usually empty. Right now, however, a rusted-out jalopy occupied the wide space.

“What the hell is this?” Jupe said, half horrified, half intrigued.

It wasn’t the prettiest thing, and I could only imagine what Jupe was seeing: no tires, the busted-out rear window, and a spring poking through a large slit in the backseat.

“This,” Lon said proudly, “is a 1967 Pontiac GTO. A legendary muscle car. It used to be called ‘The Great One.’”

Jupe carefully treaded around the car, looking up at Lon like he was certifiable.

“The Ramones sang about it,” I offered.

Lon added, “Bruce Lee’s car in Return of the Dragon.”

The kid’s face lit up ever so slightly, then fell again. “It’s . . .” Jupe screwed up his face, trying to find the right words. “It’s dead.”

“Neglected,” Lon corrected.

Jupe squinted at his father, a dubious look on face.

“It needs to be restored,” Lon said. “But the V-8 engine is original, and it’s only got fifty thousand miles on it. Things will need to be stripped and replaced, but that’s minor.”

Jupe shuffled to the other side of the car. “It doesn’t have any wheels!”

“That’s the least of your problems.”

“It will cost a fortune to fix this thing up,” Jupe argued.

I smiled. “Lucky for you, you’re independently wealthy.”

“The savings account?”

“You wanted to save it for a car—”

“One that worked,” he said. “One that didn’t look like someone dropped it in the Pacific with a body in the trunk!”

Lon picked up a stack of books and photos from a shop table in the corner and tossed them on the rusted hood. “After it’s fixed up, it could look like this . . .”